


Appetite

by Hermit9



Series: The Crafts 'verse [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (very) light bondage, Canon Divergent, F/M, Food Porn, Loneliness, Post-Deathly Hallows, Smut, Touch-starved!Draco, aromantic!Hermione, asexual!Astoria
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-07 19:02:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8812465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hermit9/pseuds/Hermit9
Summary: Prompt : Draco and Hermione go on a formal date, not on a dare. Sequel to “The Crafts”, but could also be read as a stand-alone.





	1. Izakaya

**Author's Note:**

> Many many thanks to [Pimento](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Pimento/pseuds/Pimento) and [ashes0909](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ashes0909) for the help and beta on this one! 
> 
> And to Kitsune1for listening to my angsty rants when I wanted to set the whole thing on fire.

After the third fabric shop, Draco was feeling guilty. It was well into the afternoon and neither of them had had a proper lunch or stopped for tea. His shopping list for this outing had been very particular and he was no more than halfway done. All things considered, he was probably being rude and a bore.

“You don’t have to come with me to the next one, if you have other obligations,” he said after they hefted the heavy skein of fabric back into the stacks. It was was almost, but not quite, entirely the wrong shade of blue once unspooled.

“It is Sunday. In November. It’s been raining all day. All I have waiting for me at home is more work. This is a nice break.” Hermione smiled, something she did rarely these days. “Attempting to reform a whole law system is tedious. I enjoy the distraction.” 

“Very well. Thank you, I don’t think I would be very efficient without your help.”

“It’s alright. I did introduce the idea of quilting to Narcissa after all. At least part of this is my fault.”

“I don’t think I will hold a grudge about it. She’s… happy.”

Hermione interrupted him, grabbing a different roll of fabric down the aisle. 

“How about this… _chambray_? The shelves’ sticker says it’s been dyed with indigo.”

Draco paused to look at the almost muted blue color and the subtle sheen of the fabric. Even in the cramped shop, it smelt earthy and raw. 

“It is beautiful. It should complement beautifully the theme she is working on,” he consulted his list “And we will apparently need 10 yards of it.”

“I’ll get an attendant. Start looking for the next one.”

Two hours and three more shops later Draco finally crossed the last item off Narcissa's list. 

“I think I need to either get Mother to start doing her own shopping, or get her to curb the number of items per visit,” Draco said, exhausted as they loaded the last bag into the back of a cab. Hermione’s flat was in the city proper, so it was easier to transport everything back there and then using the Floo to get back to Malfoy manor. 

“Yes. Yes, you do.” Hermione stretched, massaging her lower back. “I’m exhausted. It’s been awhile since I did that much heavy lifting.”

“Once again, I must thank you. And I apologise for the imposition.”

“I wanted to be here Draco. But you can make it up to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Invite me to dinner,” she said, with a teasing challenging tone.

“I can have the...” he stopped himself and reworded his sentence, before putting himself on the receiving side of one more S.P.E.W. speech. “Household staff prepare something at the manor?”

“No. Muggle dinner. For a day, as a guide to the city.”

Draco chuckled. He was well aware that this request, a few short months ago, would have been met with a short rebuff and possibly an insult or two. Granger was smart, she had waited until he was both used to the Muggle world (or more so than in the past, in any case) and completely exhausted from the errands.

“As you wish. Miss Granger, will you do the honor or joining me for the evening meal?”

“I would be delighted, Sir Malfoy. I know just the place.” She smirked. “But we’ll need to stop by one more store. You have glitter on your left sleeve.”

\--

Much to Draco’s relief, the last store did not require him getting out of the cab. Hermione had apparently memorised his measurements for clothes from past attempts at going shopping in what she deemed “ _absolutely not_ ” outfits. He had learned not to argue with these judgements. On the one hand, Granger was still a hard opponent to out-argue; on the other, he had absolutely no interest in Muggle fashion and having her handle it was much, much easier. 

When Hermione re-appeared Draco could not have said how long the errand had taken. The combination of warmth inside the car, the deep rumble of the motor and the soft music the driver was playing had lulled him into near slumber. He mulled over that fact as they drove away, when had he become that complacent? 

Hermione’s flat was part of an old Victorian home that had been split into multiple units. A large multi-purpose room took up most of the area. The central area featured a small dining table, usually covered with work she would bring home from the Ministry, and two mismatched wooden chairs. A fireplace on the right wall (convenient for heat and access to the Floo network) was flanked on both sides by bookcases. A single reading chair near the fire tried to define the area. A functional kitchen lined the far wall, under the only windows in the space. Two doors on the left side led to the bedroom and bathroom. The walls were bare and almost blindingly white. Outside the books, there were no mementos, no pictures, nothing to claim the space. 

They stacked the craft supplies on the table, an improbable pyramid of soft lumps and crinkly plastic. Hermione threw the clothes at Draco and gestured towards the bedroom so he could get changed. The bedroom was warm, compared to the rest of the apartment. The walls had been painted a soft lavender and the furniture was a deep mahogany color. The large double bed took up most of the space, softened by white and blue linens. On each side of the bed, nightstands held simple silver lamps and the dresser doubled as a vanity, with a large mirror with intricate etchings along its edges. Draco was quite certain the mirror was of Wizard origin, but had never asked about it.

He turned his attention to the outfit chosen for the evening. Dark wash jeans and a charcoal grey button down shirt with subtle steel tone pinstripe. It was more casual than he was used to, but he had to agree the combination with his pale eyes and long blond hair worked rather well. He waved the door open when Hermione knocked to check on him. She had changed into a knee length dress, with a print of bright blue and white ribbons weaving large almost wishing-bones patterns. Silver sequins had been fused at random into the fabric, catching the light as she moved. She was tying a large black sash around her waist as the door opened. 

“Are you overly attached to the ribbon?” Hermione asked, stepping up to him and adjusting the black satin bow at the nape of his neck. 

He paused, there was no use trying to lie to her.

“It’s a status marker.” It wasn’t a lie. 

“Not what I’m asking,” she rolled her eyes. “Do you like it?”

“No. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I see my father. And every time I startle it shames me.”

She nodded, untying the strip of black fabric and folding it over itself before discarding it on the bedside table. 

“You could always cut your hair.”

“It is not that simple. There is,” he paused, losing his train of thought as she carded her fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at the scalp. “The other pure-blood families expect me to look, dress, act a certain way. And even allowing for my… personal doubts, I could not bring shame to my family with a… too visible of a rebellion.” 

“All right,” she said. “Let me try something.”

She grabbed a comb and started parting and weaving sections of hair. He couldn’t tell what she was doing, distracted by the warmth of her at his back, the feeling of hands and fingers in his hair. How long had it been since he’d been touched with intent for longer than a greeting? 

“There,” she said, backing away so he would be able to see his reflection in the vanity’s mirror. She had braided sections of hair, though not from the root, and tied everything in a loose bun at the nape of his neck. 

“It looks…”

“Nothing like your father?”

“Quite.”

“Excellent. Let’s be on our way. I don’t want to be late and lose our table.”

\--

The restaurant, as it turns out, was within walking distance of the red-bricked victorian house. It was a tiny thing, its name barely marked on a dark painted door. Draco was quite confident he would have walked straight past it, had he had only the address. The interior was covered in wood of various shades, sun bleached and stained, marked with strange stamps. Recycled from shipping crates he learned later. 

The waiter led them to a table, one of six, not counting the long communal table with stools at the back. The table was lacquered wood, but the chairs were wrought iron with surprisingly comfortable cushions. The menus were laminated sheets, slightly tacky to touch. 

“I know nothing on here,” he said. “I know some words are English, but they might all be Sylvan for that I can read them.”

“You’ve never had Japanese food?”

“I… “ he looked at the other patrons, then dropped his eyes and picked at the denim of the too-stiff new jeans, “I have been to many hosted parties, and ate at school. But never…” he waved a hand, feeling himself blush.

“Never outside of Britain. And you hosted with traditional dishes.”

“Yes.”

She reached and grabbed his menu and stacked it with hers, catching the eye of the waiter. The words she spoke meant nothing to him, but she sounded sure of herself. There were greater risks he’d faced, he thought. 

The waiter came back with a cast iron teapot, the metal handle wrapped in fabric to protect his hands from the heat. He put two cups in front of them and poured tea, leaving with a bow and no words. Draco looked at the small ceramic cups, lacking any handle. The cup was exactly the right size to be held between his palms, the warmth comforting. He sipped at the tea, it was a pale jade color, unlike the tea he was used too. There was no milk, no lemon, no sugar, but it had a faint sweet flavor nonetheless. Hermione smiled and said nothing - in the years since her overeagerness in class she had learned that sometimes it is better to let others discover at their own pace.

“This is good. It tastes like… popcorn?”

“There’s roasted rice in it. It makes it sweet. I’m glad you approve.”

Before Draco could answer the waiter was back with a rectangular plate, which he placed in the middle of the table. The plate was ceramic too, glazed a deep sea green. On it were six crescent moon shaped balls of dough and a shallow saucer of a pale amber sauce. It’s only when he left again that Draco spoke up.

“Why is there no silverware?”

Hermione looked at him and blinked for a second. 

“Because I’m an idiot. I didn’t think you wouldn’t know how to use chopsticks.” She pointed to the two long black lacquered sticks in front of him. “I can get him to bring you a fork and knife, or I can teach you?”

He opted for the second option. She demonstrated the proper hold a few times, before grabbing his hand and adjusting his fingers around the utensils. Her hands were soft, he noticed, Except for the fingertips, which were a bit callused from quills and layers of healed paper cuts. There was ink underneath her nails, faded but deep in the skin, like a diffuse tattoo.

“And now, moving just the top one try to grab one of the _gyoza_. Dip the soft side, not the crunchy side, in the sauce.” 

Draco shook himself. He was certain there had a been a sentence before that. He needed to stop drifting like this. With a level of concentration usually reserved for Wizarding duels, he aimed for the far right lump of dough and succeeded in picking it up. However, he didn’t dip it as much as dropped it in the sauce with a splash. He frowned at it, disliking the feeling of inadequacy. 

“Not bad for a first try. I’ve seen worse.”

“You’re too kind.”

“No. I’m being honest. Now eat your dumpling.”

He picked up the morsel again, eyeing it suspiciously to see if it would endeavour to escape his tenuous hold again. He managed to get the whole thing without dropping it to his mouth and bit at it victoriously. His eyes widened in surprise. He had expected a dough ball, but beneath the vinegar tang of the sauce, he was greeted with warm juicy pork, cabbage, chives and garlic. The heat of ginger was just enough to keep everything sharp and present. It was also very, very warm despite the wasted time with the chopstick lesson. As soon as he felt he could swallow without scalding his throat he raised his eyes back to Hermione’s, who was sitting silent and smiling.

“These are very good.”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. For not laughing,” he said quietly.

“Why would I laugh? You’re allowed not to know things, especially if I’m being on the mean side and pushing you far out of your comfort zone.” She grabbed a gyoza for herself, stifling a short groan as the flavor hit her tongue.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you do it? Insist on getting me out of my comfort zone?” 

“I don’t have many friends Draco.” She shrugged, gesturing for him to eat as she talked. “I have coworkers who in equal parts envy me, resent me or look down at me. I have Harry who is busy with his own life and family. I have awkward invitations from the Weasleys that I can’t always decline. You’re different. Different from when you were at school and different from them. I don’t have to pretend anything; because I don’t think I could ever really shock you. And you’re good company.”

Draco nodded. He could see the truth in what she was saying. Though he wouldn’t have gone far enough as calling himself good company. He was surly and confused half the time. 

“Now you. Why do you let me drag you all around the city? Don’t say it’s the money, you figured those out ages ago.”

Draco was saved from having to answer immediately by the waiter’s impeccable timing. Two large bowls, white with fine lines of blue, were deposited in front of them. The contents steamed and the overall smell was salty, like the sea. He was relieved to see a spoon brought as well. The broth was salty and rich when he sipped it. Then, taking his cue from Hermione he tried the noodles, gingerly grabbing them with the chopstick until he could slurp at them. He felt ridiculous. But he had to admit the silky texture of the noodles was satisfying, with barely any resistance under the tooth.

“You see _me_ ,” he said, after carefully dabbing the broth off his lips with a napkin. “Not my family, not their legacy, just me. I only have Astoria and my mother, really, who see Draco instead of…” He frowned and pointed at the things displayed in the soup. “What are those?”

“Grilled and seasoned pork, marinated hard boiled egg,” she answered pointing. “Nori and kombu seaweed, shaved cucumber and green onions. You can make each bite different.” 

The pork was fatty and tender, but surprisingly sweet. The outside of the pieces were still crunchy from the char despite the broth, but it took him a few bites to wrap his mind around the nearly candied meat in contrast to the salty broth. The seaweed tasted like the sea, and also very green, like a concentrated version of any leafy vegetable. He liked the nori but didn’t care much for the kombu. The eggs were creamy, almost like custard, and satisfying in a way he had not known was missing from his life.

“May I ask you a question?” Draco said after they both had a few bites.

“Well, seeing as you already did, go ahead for another one.” 

“After… After everything, after things didn’t work out with...him. Why did you turn away all your suitors? I know there was more than one interested party.” 

“Because they wanted the second hand hero. They wanted the aura of glory, the association. And I didn’t want to be that girl anymore. I want… I like my life. I want to be able to claim things of my own merit, not because of who I know. And I’d rather do it alone than be an idol on someone’s shrine.”

“Ah. They didn’t want to see _you_.” 

She didn’t answer, turning back to the ramen in front of her.

“Granger?”

“Yes?”

“Would you braid my hair again?”

“Why?”

“It felt… nice.”

Hermione smiled, but it was layered. A practiced expression, a mask, smoothing over her face into careful neutrality.

“Maybe.”


	2. Arepas

The calling card was white and glossy, with the Malfoy armories in faint, tasteful shades of gray in a corner. The penmanship was bold and black (and in Muggle India Ink, she noted with a smile).

 

> Meet me for lunch  
>  D.

She sighed and looked around her office, piles of books and rolled manuscript in disarray. Her push board overflowed with tasks to tackle. She grabbed her quill and wrote an address and time on the back of the card then gave it back to the expectant owl.

The restaurant was small, a dozen tables at the most. The walls were painted a bright yellow and orange. The table tops were azure blue beneath the clear vinyl covering. Draco wasn’t sure if the colors were meant to be cheerful or a weapon to blind their patrons. He was playing idly with the bottles of strange colored concoctions on the table when Hermione walked in.

“Hot sauces,” she said. “Hot, medium and mild… Well, the mild one is mostly avocado and mayonnaise, so not really hot.”

“So, nothing harmful.”

“Well, that depends on your spice tolerance.”

She sat across from him, and he noted how her clothes were rumpled and her hair was sticking out somewhat. She had probably just thrown off her Ministry approved robes on the way out the door.

“What do you recommend?”

“The pork. Or one of the vegetarian options, if you want to try plantains.”

They ordered then fell into comfortable, companionate silence, tension easing out of Hermione’s shoulders by small increments. When the waitress dropped the bright red plastic baskets in front of them Draco felt, once again, the uncertainty of being out of place. He waited for Hermione to move towards her plate, intent on mimicking her. Seeing her pick up the rounded thing he imitated her, groaning in pleased surprise as he bit down. The warm corn dough was crispy on the outside but still tender and gave way to intensely flavorful slices of roast pork. The cool creaminess of the avocado balanced the slightly dry pork and the surprisingly refreshing pop of tomato gave bits of acid to cut the fattiness. It was simple and satisfying.

He glanced over to the partially visible kitchen where three elderly women were cooking and laughing, talking in rapid fire Spanish. Large baskets of avocados and short plump banana like fruits lined the counter, separating the dining room from the kitchen. Draco wondered if the labor and the laughter were part of what made Muggle food so appealing. It tasted like caring and family, perhaps.

“Arepas. Venezuela,” Hermione said, reaching for one of the sauces. “I can’t stay long Draco. Why are we here?”

He placed the sandwich back in the basket and wiped the grease off his fingers with the cheap recycled paper napkin. Stalling for time.

“I spoke with Astoria.”

“Well, seeing as you are married to her, I do expect that’s not a rare incident?” There was a soft smile on her lips, removing much of the edge from the barb.

“It is rare that I bring up things that might make her uncomfortable.”

“And?”

“And… I told her about dinner. And you braiding my hair. Mostly about that. It’s… It has been a while, since Scorpius’ birth that Astoria has touched me that much. Or at all, really. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it.”

“What did she say?”

“She seemed… relieved? It isn’t the reaction I expected.” Draco shook his head, picking apart the arepa nervously and eating the small pieces.

“She always was very self-possessed.”

“Yes. “ Draco nodded. “She… Scorpius’ birth was hard on her. Harder than I had realized.”

“Oh?”

Draco waved the unspoken question aside, familiar with the way Hermione’s mind worked. This wasn’t a puzzle he wanted her to work over.

“Yes. The details are… not of import. The result was that she withdrew, considerably, as our son got older. She didn’t quite believe me when I said I did not want an heir. And she wanted to ensure she... wouldn’t be asked for more.” He took a deep breath, finding the words hard to shape. “She also said that… should I seek with another what she cannot offer, that she would not begrudge me.”

Draco abandoned the remains of his meal, focusing instead on tearing small equally sized squares from the napkins. Didn’t know why he was so nervous, unable to look Granger in the eye. He’d faced Voldemort, for Heaven’s sake!

“Thank you for telling me.”

“What?” His head jerked up. He wasn’t sure what reception he had expected but this was far from it.

“This isn’t easy for you. I can see that. So thank you.” She caught the eye of the harried waitress and nodded towards the till. “Seems like I will be taking a long lunch after all. But let's take it elsewhere.”

As she spoke the cacophony of the restaurant seemed to surge back around him, the loud and relentlessly happy music, the din of the patrons. He wondered for a brief moment if they’d been enclosed in a cone of silence up until that point, then shook his head. It wasn’t her style. He won the argument to pay for the food by virtue of getting to the cash first. The bills were crisp and new, never folded. They still felt alien in his hands, too light and breakable.

The air as they stepped outside was cold and damp, the silence settling over them like a mantle. Draco stood still, watching the plumes of his breath as Hermione pulled on her gloves. She was wearing a dark burgundy cape with a deep hood, it closed with three large military style metallic buttons. The gloves were leathery, and bright yellow. He smiled.

“House colors? Still?”

“What? You don’t favor black and green yourself?” Her voice was amused, as she reached for his sleeve and pulled it while raising an eyebrow. His coat was black with forest green piping.

“Touché” he conceded, allowing her to lead.

 

The lunch crowd was pouring out of the restaurants and cafés, shuffling back to offices and cars like the tide receding. They walked for a few blocks, and soon their steps were the only ones echoing on the paver stones. A few minutes later they walked into a mostly empty tea house. Hermione waved at the lone staff member, who was messing with a large coffee machine and pointed towards the back. The man nodded and paid them no further attention. Draco followed her to a nook table, flanked with large stuffed chairs. The fabric of the chairs was worn and starting to fray at the edges, but the stuffing held. Sitting in it was probably as close to a hug as any piece of furniture could get. A square lacquered table was between them, the legs scuffed and worn but the top had recently been varnished. A large black urn sat on the table, matte porcelain with brightly painted flowers and a shiny chrome spigot facing the center of the table; an electrical cord ran from it and was tied to the table’s leg to keep it out of the way, reaching an outlet in the wall on his left.

As they settled, they shed their outerwear again and the server brought over a tray, deftly setting the table for them in silence. Two delicate glass cups with an engraved metal base and handle appeared, followed by a small cut crystal jar of bright red strawberry jam. He removed the lid of the urn and replaced it with a diminutive teapot with a similar painted flowers motif. Seemingly satisfied he nodded once and retreated back to the espresso machines.

Draco reached for the teapot and poured some of the tea concentrate in a cup.

“You still like yours on the strong side?” he asked. He looked up at Hermione, who nodded at him with a bemused look. He chuckled softly, adding warm water from the samovar to the cup before handing it to her. “Despite your recent impressions, I was not entirely raised by wolves.” He handed her the cup before fixing one for himself, stirring in a good lump of the jam.

“I keep forgetting,” Hermione said, sipping the tea slowly. “There’s a wizarding school there and the old families probably have allegiances and visits.”

“Quite.” He settled back in the chair, sipping the smoky and sweet tea. “I’ve been to Koldovstoretz. It’s beautiful, but very cold.”

“I don’t care much for the cold. Haven’t since the war.” She settled in her chair, the soft fabric and stuffing following her hunched shoulders. She was holding the cup but not drinking it, mindlessly running her fingers along the etching in the metal. Draco didn’t interrupt. He was familiar with that look, when the remnants of horrors surged too close to the skin.

“We were so young when we left to go hunt the horcruxes. I don’t blame either of them for what was said because of the locket, but afterward…” She paused and shivered, fingers tightening around the cup. Her eyes flicked up to meet Draco’s suddenly, a bit too wide, memories burning like a fever.

“You asked why I didn’t court again, after. But the real question is why did I walk away. After the war, Ron wanted what he’d always known. A wife at home with a brood of children. Coming in from his very important Auror work to a kiss and a warm meal.” She looked away then, drawing a shaky breath. “And I love Molly, I really do, she was a mother to all of us when we needed that. But… that’s not who I am, not what I need.” her voice broke, a little, and she drained half of the tea.

“I did wonder,” said Draco. “During the lesson with Professor Slughorn and the amortencia you seemed… rather certain of your attraction.”

“The Hermione of then was.” Her voice was thin, younger perhaps. She paused again, heavy seconds dripping between them. When she spoke again her voice was steadier.

“Do you know how horcruxes are made?”

Draco shivered and glanced over his shoulder at the rest of the tea house. There were only two other customers, seated by the window up front. Neither of them was even looking their way. He nodded. Some things were best not said out loud, even after this handful of years.

“To destroy the object is to destroy the shard of soul within it. It’s… not enough to break a piece of your own but… It creates an effect close to stress fractures, the way glass can have a webbing of cracks and still hold its shape. Not broken, but no longer whole either.”

“For a long time, none of us would admit that we were no longer the children who had sat in that class. Except maybe Harry, but then he never wanted to impose on any of us. I still have dreams, the kind where you wake up in tears. Ron’s hand handing me that basilisk’s fang, the way he looked at me, on his knees, saying I had to be the one to do it… The sound, when the cup broke and the water rose.” The cup made a high pitched ringing noise as she fumbled to put it on the table. “He knew. He knew what it was like and he didn’t tell me.”

Draco stayed silent, but he reached across the small table and captured her hands in his. There were no words he could say to make any of it better, so he stayed silent, just holding her hands, then gently rubbing her wrists. When her shoulders stopped shaking with silent sobs he refilled her cup with his left hand. His right hand never broke contact, fingers gently rubbing hers in comfort.

The honeyed stretch of time was broken by the server, dropping a basket with a dozen small doughnuts on the table. Draco could feel the warmth radiating from it, the confections smelled like sugar and cinnamon.

“Thank you Matvei,” said Hermione, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. He nodded and patted her shoulder twice before walking away. Draco’s eyes followed him; noting how he stopped briefly and seemed to wave in mid-air, arm unfurling at waist level.

Before he could question the movement, he was distracted by the jingle of chimes above the door, as a group of student walked into the tea house. They were laughing and giddy, carrying too many books and clearly already saturated with caffeine. Matvei stepped out to intercept them and directed them to a table by the wall with a wave of his hand.

“Is he keeping people away from us on purpose?” He asked Hermione as he settled back in his chair.

“Well yes. His wife was a witch. She fought the Ministry tooth and nail to be allowed to build this place.” She had reclaimed her hands along with her composure, sitting back comfortably. She nudged the doughnuts towards him. Draco took one even though he was stuffed from lunch. The outer layer was crispy and perfectly coated with the spiced sugar. The inner part was fluffy, warm and pleasantly moist. Draco eyed the basket with a dubious expression; these things were likely addictive. Hermione chuckled and claimed another one for herself.

“There’s glamor wards in the walls just behind you. Muggles see a wall with a ‘Staff only’ door. But she didn’t quite finish the sound proofing before... so Matvei enforces the separation as best he can.”

Draco looked at the wall and now that it had been pointed out to him, he could see the markings of wards hidden in the decoration. The weird gesture made sense now, he had been opening (or pretending to) the door the Muggles would see.

“Clever. I could probably rework those for him to finish the soundproofing, if he’d let me.”

“You’d have to ask him. But I think he’d like that.”

There was a new burst of laughter behind them, snippets of voices and stories floating to them. They both smiled, warm, safe and content.

 


	3. Baklava

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter with the promised smut. Enjoy!

Draco took a deep breath while getting out of the cab and immediately regretted it. The weather had taken a cold turn with the first days of December, and now the very air felt like an attack, making his nose, throat, and lungs contract in protest. He shoved his hands in his pockets, rounding his shoulders against the cold as he closed the remaining distance to Hermione’s house. At least the rain clouds had been driven away; it was a shame the muggle’s street lamps prevented all chance of seeing the rare stars.

The door opened on its own as soon as he knocked. Draco frowned; it was unlike Hermione to use domestic spells. His frown deepened as he conscientiously wiped his shoes of the welcome mat and removed his coat, watching the pots and pans in the kitchen furiously washing themselves and clanging back into cupboards.

“Bad day at the office?”

Hermione looked over her shoulder and rolled her eyes at him, but did not step away from the stovetop.

“Yes. Stumbled upon more of the Pink Toad’s work.”

She picked up the pot she had been stirring and poured its content into a waiting tray on the counter. A soft sizzling sound followed the motion, sweet scented steam rising. As soon as she released it, the pot flew off to get scrubbed.

“It’s a bigoted, convoluted horror that will likely suck all of my time for the next two months to fix.”

She turned, leaning her elbows against the counter to face Draco. “How was your day?”

“Very fulfilling. I have finished the wards for Matvei. He seemed pleased.”

“That’s a good thing.”

“I think so. Hopefully, he will not mind if I use him as a reference. I quite liked the work.”

“I’m sure he will be glad to provide glowing recommendation letters, should anyone see fit to read one written by a muggle.”

The storm of cutlery abated at last as the last of the kitchen tools put themselves away. Draco took that as his cue to close the distance between the dining room and kitchen areas, curious to catch a glimpse of what Granger had been working on.

“When is Astoria expecting you?”

“She isn’t. She’s visiting the Greengrass matriarch with Scorpius and will not be back until midday tomorrow.”

"Good, I was hoping for something like that," said Hermione, her voice changing register, a bit lower, more in control. There was a sparkle of challenge in her eyes. Draco had a moment of hesitation as he looked at her, not moving away but taken aback.

"That is...unless you've changed your mind?" Hermione asked, voice soft.

"No. Absolutely not" said Draco. "I... didn't actually let myself hope or linger on the thought that this arrangement would be amenable to you."

She smiled, and her eyes still held that sparkle.

"Did you eat already?"

"Not exactly?" It wasn’t a lie. Matvei had kept him supplied with tea and those addictive doughnuts, but it wasn't a meal per se.

She hummed and nodded, turning to the tray behind her.

"These will be better in a few hours, but you can try one."

Hermione muttered a spell under her breath, temperature control or cooling, from the feel of the magic. Grabbing a short sharp knife, she carefully loosened a diamond shaped piece from the tray. It was pastry of some sort, made of many layers; she held the morsel and brought it to Draco's lip, smirking slightly.

Draco reminded himself that he had asked for this situation, he should not be so surprised. He chased from his mind the ghost of his father's disapproval; this was his alone. He opened his lips so that he could take a bite. Layers broke under the pressure of his bite with sharp cracking sounds, crackling against each other. The nut filling thick, a mix of almonds and pistachio maybe, and perfumed with a spice he could not place. His eyes startled open as a gush of warm honey trickled out of the confection, sweet and yet floral and not sickening. It coated his mouth, delightful contrast against the dry pastry layers and ran down his throat thick and soothing.

"Good?" asked Hermione.

He nodded, mouth too full to speak. She waited until he swallowed the first bite before feeding him the second half, fingers gentle on his lips. When he had swallowed she tried to remove her hand, giving space to back out if he wanted. He didn't give her a chance, chasing the taste of honey on her fingers with kitten licks.

It was his turn to smirk as he closed the space between them, dropping her hand and seeking her lips. The kiss was warm and sticky and unhurried. Draco groaned softly, it had been far, far too long. He felt Hermione react to the sound, subtle tension running through her as she leaned into him. He realized he had closed his eyes, but did not care to open them now. There was a hand in his hair, gently pulling at the strands at the base of his skull. There were soft lips and the moist curious licks of a tongue. He deepened the kiss, allowing her to lick the honey from his mouth.

When they parted for breath they were both flushed, swaying in each other's spaces.

"What do you want Draco?" Hermione asked softly. Her breath tickled the skin of his neck, warm and not close enough.

"This." His voice was low, raw desire seeping through. "This and more. I want what you will give me," he leered, reminiscent of the expression he used to wear when they were kids. "I am greedy. I want _everything_ you will give me."

"Humm," she mumbled against his neck. He reached behind her, scooping some of the pooled syrup in the baking tray on his finger and slowly, slowly spreading it on her lips before leaning in for one more gloriously honey sweet sticky kiss. She let him control this kiss for a few moments before returning her hand to his hair and pulling gently so that he leaned his head back with a gasp.

"Good," she said, breathing along his throat and licking a broad path up to his ear. "Then I'll make you _take_ , until you're sated and confused and soft around the edges." She nibbled on the soft flesh of the lobe, voice barely above a breath "And then maybe some more."

Draco shuddered, held in a trance by her lips on the shell of his ear, the warmth of her body against his chest. He was dimly aware of things moving around him, of magic, distantly being called and channeled. It didn't matter at the moment. In fact, he was quite certain that the specter of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named could waltz into the dining room, and he would not care. Hermione was peppering kisses down his throat and across his collarbone, soft wet touches, only lips and tongue. Careful, thorough, and acutely aware that leaving marks was, perhaps, far too bold. Draco chased the thought for a moment. Maybe later this could be revisited. He bent his head, intent on returning the exploratory kisses, but she pulled away with a smug smile.

"Come on, then," she said, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward her room. The comforter had been folded over and the lamp had been switched on. The warm yellow light of the incandescent bulb turned the mirror a peculiar shade of brass. Draco could have sworn that for a moment the etchings on the side had moved. Then the thought was driven from his mind as hands started pulling at his clothes, undoing clasps and buttons, peeling back layers with purpose and hunger. Shivers ran up his spine as goosebumps covered the suddenly exposed skin.

He tried to reach for the buttons on Hermione's shirt only to be pushed back, gently, so that the back of his knees hit the side of the mattress. It was easier to fall back, pushing himself so that his legs were on the bed and she could climb in as well. Hermione was still smiling, less smug now, more predatory. She laid on her side, hand running up and down Draco's torso in a lazy movement. Draco leaned towards her, seeking a kiss or more warmth, shivering under the touch. The trail of sparks was maddening and not nearly enough.

"Ah ah," she said, putting a finger on his lips. "I get to decide what I give to you. And how much, how slow. In fact...." She stopped in mid-sentence, meeting his gaze with a serious look, the flirtation gone from her face. “There’s a few things I want to try. Just let me know if you get uncomfortable, okay?” She waited until Draco nodded his agreement. “Turn over on your stomach and scoot to the middle of the bed.”

She got off the bed as he moved. He heard fabric rustling and falling to the ground, but didn’t turn around to watch. He would get a chance, later. The sheets were soft against his chest the pillow comfortable under his cheek. There was a light herbal note to the soap used in the laundry. Sage, perhaps. Hermione’s return was a sudden warmth on his back, as she sat straddling him, though she kept most of her weight off his body. Her hands were slick on his skin, spreading sweet perfumed oil up his back and around his shoulders.

“Is that scent pears?”

“Yes,” she said, “it’s my favorite. You’re too tense. Just breathe and relax, ok?”

Draco nodded and closed his eyes. Her hands felt good, releasing tension from his back and shoulders, skating down carefully over his kidneys and shooting up along the spine again. She leaned over him, body heat comforting as she reached down to roll her palm along the shoulder joints, then tracing up his neck to the sensitive hollows of the skull.

Working her way down both arms, she pressed each muscle and made the shoulders move a bit to loosen the tension there. Draco grunted when she reached his hands, applying firm pressure on the meaty part near the thumb and softer touches everywhere else, working at each finger and the delicate bones of the wrist. If you had asked him before this moment, he would not have know tension could be carried in the hands. Draco lost track of time and let himself float into the blending sensations.

Hermione shifted off to kneel on Draco’s side as she worked both legs, gently flexing the ankles and using firm but careful pressure on the arch of the foot. She looked at Draco’s glazed expression and smirked, lying back on her flank beside him. Her touch grew lighter, more teasing, drawing forms and letters with her fingertips.

“Are you drawing binding runes on me, Granger?”

“Oh, there he is,” she answered, almost purring. “Back with me?”

“That’s unfair to ask.” His eyes fluttered open, the small movement tremendously complex in Draco’s haze. “You’re the one who took all my motor skills away.”

He groaned and lifted himself off the bed so he could turn on his side, enjoying a looseness in his back and shoulder that felt almost alien. Strands of hair had escaped from Hermione’s working day braid and framed her face in soft loose curls. Draco reached to tuck a few of them behind her ear, and he shuddered when she leaned into the touch, kissing the inside of his wrist.

He moved his hand slowly, fingertips skating over her cheekbones and jaw, down the sweep of her neck and shoulder, fingers folding so that the back of his knuckles grazed the silky swell of her breast. She leaned into the touch, so he let his hand unfold and cup the firmness of it in his palm. The soft sigh the fell from Hermione’s lips encouraged him to ghost his fingers over the hardened nub of her nipple.

“I’d feared that you’d be too sated from the massage,” she admitted and started kissing his neck again, nipping softly at the pulse point then trailing down to the hollow of his collar bone. He chuckled, squeezing her breast before running his hand down her side and around to her back. He moved his hip minutely, pressing the hard line of his arousal against her thigh.

“No… Unless?” His eyes flicked down to meet hers, looking for doubt, regret or hesitation. He wanted more, and above that he wanted to be desired.

“No. Nowhere near.” She nudged his shoulder so that he rolled to his back, baring the other side of his neck. Draco moaned when Hermione resumed her assault on the exposed skin. Her lips traced the curve of his ear, the barely there touch sending lightning dancing along his nerves.

“Give me your hands Draco.” Her breath was moist and her voice very soft, but the nip and lick on his lobe made him arch his spine with a breathy gasp. He took stock of where his hands were, surprised to find one splayed on her back, pushing her against his chest, and the other grasping as her breast. It took an unfair amount of concentration to make himself let go and link his fingers with hers.

Both of their hands were still soft and smooth from the oil, making Hermione’s lips glisten as she kissed each finger and the skin in the fold of the wrist. She pushed against his hands, bringing them to rest on the mattress above his head, fingers curled against the headboard. Draco raised an eyebrow as she looped a soft silk scarf around his wrists. It wasn’t a knot or a restraint, he could slip out of it easily.

“Feeling bossy, are we Granger?”

“Yes. I just want to touch, and taste--” She shuffled down to lick his nipple. “--And your hands were distracting.”

Draco didn’t answer. For one, the fabric felt good against his skin, whisper soft and slightly cool. For another, his ability to form words (let alone sentences) was suddenly stripped from him as the path of kisses ended with Hermione’s tongue licking a wide stripe along the length of his cock.

He lifted his head to look down, focusing the vanishing shreds of his self-control not to buck his hips. Hermione's brown eyes were sparkling with mischief as she met his. Without breaking eye contact, she swirled her tongue over the ridges of the head before smirking and swallowing it whole.

Draco's skull hit the mattress with a dull thud, as air was driven out of him. He closed his eyes to focus on the sensations, nails gently raking at his sides, fingers skating on the soft skin of his perineum. And the warm, warm wetness of mouth and teeth and tongue around him.

A small part of his brain (the part that attempted to remain aware of the world outside of the fire in his skin) noticed when she shifted. She was straddling his leg, using his calf to gain friction against her own arousal. Mindful not to move his hips too much, he changed the angle of that leg so she could get better contact. His efforts were rewarded by a guttural moan that sent stars sparking behind his eyelids.

“You told me,” he said haltingly, “not to distract. You didn't tell me to be useless.”

For two or three painful heartbeats cold seized him. He was glad for the scarf, tethering him to the bed as he floated unmoored by the absence of her weight. Just as he felt a low whine build at the back of his throat, he was engulfed with warmth again. His eyes flew open as he watched Hermione lowering over him, back arched, eyes glazed and her lips parted. He could feel her inner walls stretching around him until she was fully seated and rolling her hips in slow circles.

His whine turned to a cry and forced its way out with his next exhale. She answered with a moan of her own, grinding against his pelvic bone, slow and deep. Her hands were back on his chest, her mouth on his neck and lips. Neither of them spoke as they chased their pleasure, stumbling off the edge with breathless whimpers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *author shall now go crawl under a rock*


	4. Kebabs (an epilogue)

They stayed in a tangled pile of shaking limbs until the sweat started to cool and turn sticky. Hermione was the first to get up, not bothering to cover herself as she headed out of the room and to the bathroom. Draco didn’t mind; it was a nice view. The old muggle plumbing clanked and rattled when the shower started, but he found the sound soothing. After a few minutes, he gathered the strength to get up and gather his clothes. When the water tapered off he moved to the main living room, giving Hermione space before taking his turn at the shower. Neither of them spoke.

A few minutes later, feeling a lot more awake and rinsed off, he stepped back out of the bathroom. Hermione was leafing through takeaway pamphlets. She had a rather large collection of them.

“Strip down the bed, please?” she asked without looking up. She was poking at a glowing pane of Muggle glass that Draco had yet to understand or master. He nodded and walked back into the room. Then stared at the bed frowning for a long moment. 

“How?” he asked, calling back behind him. He realized he’d never done something like that. House elves or spells took care of the linen in his home. She laughed and came to join him, helping him remove the sheets and toss them into a laundry bag.

“Food will be here soon. I never did get around to feeding you.”

“I don’t mind. I could always eat when I get home.” He looked up and smiled at her.

“Nonsense.” She smiled back. 

The takeaway showed up promptly (and the delivery guy seemed used to late night calls to this address, from the banter he shared with Granger). They ate the kebabs straight from the foil wrapping, messy juicy meats, and warm bread. There was only one packet of tzatziki, and for a second they almost came to a fight over it. 

“You know,” said Draco, licking the last of the meat’s juices off his fingers, “I don’t think I’ll be able to have honey again and not blush.”

“There’s a solution for that,” Hermione replied. She got up and threw away the takeaway wrappings then dug into her cupboards for a container. “You take some of the baklava home and share them with your wife and son.” She transferred a good part of the pastries into the container and handed it to him. 

“And you bring me back the Tupperware when you’re done. Or when you get a new contract in the city. Or when Narcissa needs more shopping.”

Draco bowed and accepted the offering,

“Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading it through. Please let me know if you liked it?


End file.
